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113 



THE LAST CRUSADE 
AND OTHER VERSE 



THE LAST CRUSADE 



By 

ANNE HIGGINSON SPICER 

(Author of "Songs of the Skokie") 




NEW YORK 

JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

1918 



6** 



"The Last Crusade" was printed first in the 
Chicago Examiner, "Four Women in Black" and 
"Easter, 1918" in the Chicago Tribune. Many 
of the War-songs and sonnets first appeared in 
the Line o'Type, and The Chicago Post. 

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the re- 
spective Publishers for permission to reprint 
these verses. 



■ fa -A (9/9 

©CLA5JL1571 






c 



TO MY TWO DEAREST AND SEVEREST CRITICS, 

MY HUSBAND AND MY MOTHER, THIS LITTLE 

BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS 
War Songs and Sonnets n 

FLANDERS FLOWERS 12 

THE LAST CRUSADE 15 

TO SAMMIE l8 

to liberty 19 

"spurs" 20 

1918 21 

MARIANA AT THE RED CROSS SHOP 22 

FOUR WOMEN IN BLACK 23 

THE HEART OF LINCOLN 25 

THE PIANO RECITAL IN WARTIME 26 

EASTER, 1918 29 

THE AIRMAN 31 

YOUR WOMEN AT HOME 32 

SERVICE FLAGS 34 

TO OUR FOREIGN BORN 35 

A SOLDIER SPEAKS 36 

THE TROOPSHIP 37 

TO THE INVADERS 38 

NEW YEAR'S, 1918 39 



CONTENTS— Continued 

to those who weep 4o 

joyce kilmer 41 

Monologues 43 

cristofano speaks 45 

the old maestro speaks 47 

a man speaks of roses ■. 52 

interval 55 

sleepless in the city 58 

lot's WIFE 59 

AFTER THE ACCIDENT 62 

"A BRITTLE WORLD" 64 

EPISODE 66 

a rhymester speaks 69 

Sonnets 71 

carpe diem 73 

ravinia 74 

to e. r. g 75 

the second wife 76 

CANDLES 77 

NAPOLEON'S DEATH-MASK 78 

WHAT YOU HAVE WRIT 79 

SONNETINA — TO M. F. C 80 



CONTENTS— Continued 

i built me pinchbeck palaces 8l 

if thoughts are nothing 82 

Ballads, Songs and Catches 83 

ballade of basil 85 

ballade of old tales 87 

et ego in riverside vixi 89 

vanished youth 91 

"bungaroo" 93 

A balladist boasteth 95 

echo 97 

the two songs 99 

SONG IOO 

IF I were spoiler of the skies IOI 

at the loom i03 

song 103 

dewdrop 104 

song 104 

stronghold 105 

to evelyn 106 

christmas in the slums 107 

MY SONGS 108 

MEMORIES 109 



CONTENTS— Continued 

THE TIPTOE DREAM I IO 

IMPORTANCE IIO 

I AM THY LOVER, LIFE Ill 

WESTPORT CHANTY 112 

SONG IN THE WEST 113 

THE CITY 114 

I DREAMT I SAW MY LAUGHING LOVE 119 

A MESSAGE 120 

SISTERS 121 

GUDRUN 122 

HER SONNET 123 

SONNET 124 

THE POET 125 

COUNTING SHEEP 126 



WAR SONGS AND SONNETS 



FLANDERS FLOWERS 

From now on there are "corners in foreign fields that are 
forever" America. Should not the golden-rod bloom there? 

Some day the fields of Flanders shall bloom in peace 

again, 
Field lilies and the clover spread, where once was crimson 

stain; 
And a new cheerful golden spray shine through the sun 

and rain. 
The clover's for the English who sleep beneath that sod, 
The lily's for the noble French whose spirits rest with God, 
But where our sacred dead shall sleep must bloom the 

golden-rod. 

For every flower of summer those meadows shall have 
room, 

And yet I think no Flemish hand will touch the Kaiser- 
bloom, 

Whose growing blue must evermore whisper of grief 
and doom. 

But clover for the English shall blossom from the sod, 

And glorious lilies for the French whose spirits rest with 
God— 

And where our own lads lie asleep, the prairie golden- 
rod. 

12 



Once more the Flemish children shall laugh through 

Flemish lanes, 
And gather happy garlands through fields of by-gone 

pains; 
And as they run and cull their flowers, sing in their 

simple strains, 
"These clovers are for English laho fought to save this 

sod, 
And lilies for the valiant French — may their souls rest 

in God! 
And for the brave Americans ive pluck this golden-rod." 
December, 1917. 



13 



THE LAST CRUSADE 

A BANNER blows where Sharon's rose in beauty 
once did bloom. 
The cruel Crescent meets its doom — the Cross 

triumphant goes. 
Where once the harp and tabor rung a newer 

anthem now is sung — 
"We're going to Jerusalem to vanquish Freedom's 
foes." 

"We're going to Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Jerusalem; 
We're going to Jerusalem to fight for Freedom's 

cause, 
That prophecy may be fulfilled, of lands untilled 

and thousands killed, 
And mighty sacrifice be spilled obedient to laws." 

Oh! little town of Bethlehem, 
Thy streets may sound again 
With rhythmic beat of marching feet 
Of world-wide gathered men. 
They follow true, Gentile and Jew, 
That great Judean's word, 
Who said, "I do not bring to you, 
Peace, but I bring a sword." 

15 



Throughout each blue Judean hill stalk martial 

figures strange, 
And mighty guns that seek their range make 

Hebron's echoes thrill. 



From ancient temple, mosque and shrine, 

Cathedral, chapel, home, 

Come men who knelt in England, 

Or bowed the knee at Rome; 

Or bent the brow at Buddhist shrine, 

Or failed of any creed; 

All claim the right to march and fight 

For Freedom at her need. 



They're going to Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, 
They're going to Jerusalem with cannon and with 

sword. 
From land of palm and land of pine, 
From tropic shrine and Afric mine, 
They're going to Jerusalem to battle for the Lord. 



And the warrior task is done, 
At set of sun, at rest of gun, 
Perhaps some Shropshire lad may run 
Forgetful of the war, 

16 



To rest his limbs and drink his fill 
By cool Siloam's shady rill, 
Or sleep upon some sheltered hill 
That Sacred feet once bore. 

Some hardy boy from Saskatoon 
Beneath the moon may rest and croon 
Some modern ukelele tune 
Where David piped of yore. 
And men from Dublin and Dundee 
Dream deep beneath some olive tree, 
Or row on peaceful Galilee, 
Or wander on its shore. 

For ours shall be Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Jerusalem; 
For ours shall be Jerusalem, that golden city blest, 
The happy home of which we've sung in every land 

and every tongue. 
When there the pure white cross is hung 
Great spirits shall have rest! 



Written November 22nd, 1917. 
Published December 1st, 1917. 

Gen. Allenby entered Jerusalem December 10th, 1917. 



17 



TO SAMMIE 

WE'LL sew for you and knit for you, 
And buy you "eats" and "smokes"; 
We'll send you pretty pictures, 

And we'll write you funny jokes; 
We'll pray you sail safe and serene 

Across the ocean's foam, 
And we'll keep your little gardens green 
Until you come back home. 

For you have gone to fight for all 

That's sacred and that's dear. 
We'd like to be there with you; 

It's harder to stay here. 
But we'll be brave, not tearful — 

Soldiers' women hide their pain; 
So we'll keep your hearth-fires cheerful 

Till you come home again. 



18 



TO LIBERTY 

SINCE you have called, "Come follow me 
Through wind and rain and mire — " 
No more I know the warmth and glow 
And comfort of my fire. 

Better the stinging of the sleet 
On my uplifted face, 
Than shameful ease and sophistries 
Here in this sheltered place. 

Better to march through storm and cold 
Across the embattled land, 
So I but know the path you go, 
My hand within your hand. 
December, 1917. 



19 



"SPURS" 
(To Rolf and Donald, R.O.T.C. January, 1918.) 

GIRD on my sword for me, 
Mother, my mother. 
Say the last word for me, 

You and no other. 
Lay your kiss on my brow; 
I am my country's now; 
She has my plighted vow — 
She and no other. 

Yours were my childish tears, 

Mother, my mother — 
My boyhood's hopes and fears; 

And still no other 
Hand for mine wistful seeks; 
Pale for me no girl's cheeks 
Now when my country speaks, 

Mother, my mother. 

No tears for me must flow, 

Mother, my mother. 
Smile on me as I go, 

Your smile, no other 
Gauge shall adorn my lance, 
Warding off all mischance; 
Kiss me, for I'm for France, 

Mother, my mother. 

20 



1918 

YEAR that's before us, O year, 
Sacred to noble endeavor, 
Strengthen and help us to sever 
Bonds of oppression and fear! 

Metals hid deep in the earth, 
Hear how the nations are calling, 
"Save from the enemy's thralling, 
Free us from famine and dearth!" 

Seed in the granaries lying, 
You are more precious than gold; 
Hid in your kernels you hold 
Power over living and dying; 

Bulbs buried deep in the drifts, 
Roots, reaching snow-veiled and hidden, 
Yours a high purpose when bidden 
To beauty that flowers and uplifts. 

Love that lies deeper than words, 
Courage that watches unsleeping, 
Blossom and bear for our reaping, 
Deeds that shall battle like swords. 



21 



MARIANA AT THE RED CROSS SHOP 
(Villanelle.) 

OH! when will the mail come in? 
Now, mother, do I purl six? 
And how does the heel begin? 

His last picture looked so thin; 
But cameras play such tricks — 
Oh! when will the mail come in? 

These wools don't match; it's a sin. 
Would you rip out, or try to mix? 
And how does the heel begin? 

I can't hear a word for din. 
That old sewing-motor kicks. 
Oh! when will the mail come in? 

Can I pick up this stitch with a pin? 

My needles are in a fix. 

And how does the heel begin? 

That dressing's too wrinkled, Min. 

You must weight down your gauze with bricks. 

Oh! when will the mail come in? 

And how does the heel begin? 

22 



FOUR WOMEN IN BLACK 

I DREAMT I saw four women in black 
Who had borne great sorrow upon the rack, 
Three faced the future with brows steadfast, 
But the fourth sat drooping, with eyes downcast. 



"Why, tell me why," I asked of them, 
"Go ye in black from bonnet to hem? 
Are ye the mothers of soldiers gone?" 
"Yes," they answered me, every one. 

The first: "My boy drove an ambulance 
And was killed by a shell in northern France." 
The second: "Mine was drowned at sea, 
Fighting an unseen enemy." 

The third: "My lad was an airman brave. 
He lies somewhere in a German grave." 
The fourth gave answer never a word, 
But sat in silence, nor looked nor stirred. 

"Then ye do not weep uncomforted?" 

To the three who had spoken I softly said. 

They answered as one: "We are filled with pride. 

It was for their country our boys have died." 

23 






"And what is your story?" I asked and turned 
To the fourth. Her eyes to my eyes burned. 
"My story is other than theirs. No pride 
Take I in telling how my boy died." 

He died of neglect, of cold, and damp, 
Here at home, in a crowded camp, 
While statesmen wrangled at Washington, 
The country that bore him killed my son. 

"When History writes on the page of fame 
In letters of gold each hero's name, 
These mothers shall see emblazoned there 
The glorious names of the sons they bare. 

"But I — what solace for such as I? 

Deep in our hearts we must stifle our cry. 

Who will listen? And who will care 

For boys who die here and not 'over there'? 

"Was it my own vote, at Washington, 
That helped the nation to kill my son? 
If this be treason," her voice came broken, 
"Then make the most of it. I have spoken." 

I dreamt I saw four women in black, 

But three for comfort did not lack — 

But the fourth bore sorrow that knows no end- 

The sorrow of one betrayed by a friend. 

February third, 1918. 

24 



THE HEART OF LINCOLI 

STILL heart, do you thrill, heart? 
Heart do you beat again? 
Thrill and beat at the marching feet 
Of America's young men? 

Splendid heart, unended heart, 

Heart of our prayers and songs, 

Beat from the dust, as well you must, 
At the injured peoples' wrongs. 

Weeping heart, unsleeping heart, 
Somewhere beyond the grave 

Do you not throb at every sob 
Wrung from a fettered slave? 

Oh grave heart, and brave heart, 

Heart of our Lincoln, today 
Live in the truth and the splendid youth 
Of our young men marching away! 
February, 1918. 



25 



THE PIANO RECITAL IN WARTIME 

In a room all gleam and glisten, where the light 
half shines half dims on velvet curtains rich and 
crimson, there they come to rest and listen. 
Women — Women, quiet, sitting strange, laconic at 
their knitting, in that artificial place, with their fur- 
belows and lace, furs and softness, charm and grace. 

They are smiling, softly speaking, eye for friendly 
eye is seeking, but the old light-hearted chatter over 
every trival matter, that is gone; a gentle clatter of 
the needles rises high, till they almost seem to sigh 
in a curious litany — 

"God of Battles, hear us pray! 
Be with all our boys today!" 

A long-haired Russian, glowering pale, with figure 
stooping, shoulders frail, bows and bends from left 
to right, then turns a profile strange and white; sits 
on a bench, adjusts his coat, then crashes sudden 
on the keys, runs a light course from note to note, 
then weaves his wondrous melodies. How his 
fingers lift them, sift them into music, strange and 
plastic, while his face, still-set, monastic in its curious 
detachment, never alters, never changes, while the 
music swells and ranges, while a vision to my 
thought from a far-off land is brought. Men like 
him in Moscow now fail their tryst with Liberty, 

26 



traitor to their nation's vow, false to honor, careless 
how we may blame across the sea. Swiftly, silent, 
deftly plying, still the needles go a-flying in a rhythm 
all their own, in and out and out and in, in a strange 
determined measure, in a poignant undertone, like 
a protest against pleasure, calling, calling silently in 
their ceaseless litany — 

"God of Battles, save from harm! 
Help our boys and keep them warm!" 

The pianist has supple wrist, strong hand and 
flexible fingerjoint. With poise and ease he strikes 
the keys, and adds the subtle counterpoint our day 
brings to old melodies, making them dance and turn 
and twist. Russian, Norwegian, Polish, Finnish, 
simple, involved, abstruse, or thinnish, throughout 
the morning without pause excepting for the soft 
applause, he weaves his harmonies. But all the 
time a countercharm spins from each woman's 
bended arm — 

"God of Battles, help us make 

A shield that shall all weapons break!" 

Can a soft hour's dreaming harm us? Strange 
Debussy's eerie magic, wistful spell of Chopin's long- 
ing, Rachmaninoff's passions thronging, or Tschai- 
kowsky's message tragic? Now comes wondrous 
Brahms to charm us. Will his melodies disarm us? 

27 



Art, men say, is universal, has no message, has no 
banner. There's no hint of a dispersal, but a subtle 
change of manner, while more potent and more 
high swells the elemental cry — 

"God of Battles, turn the Huns, 

And help our sons, and help our sons!" 

The programme's done. At lengthened clapping 
the Russian smiles. As though caught napping, re- 
sumes his air of studied gloom, bows low again and 
leaves the room. The audience rises, turns to go, 
with swish of skirts and hurrying feet, when upward 
from the busy street there comes the rhythmic beat 
and flow of drum and fife, of shout and call. The 
women turn and one and all run to the window 
while the band goes by. They talk and laugh and 
cry and wave a handkerchief or hand. In khaki 
files the boys are lined, while the fife insistent plays 
a marching song of other days, "The Girl I Left 
Behind." 

Grief and worry, care and hurry fade from every 
woman's face. Joy and pride and fine emotion take 
their place. Gone is fear, and indecision, for there 
shines the clearer vision in the courage and the 
truth of this splendid marching youth. 

"God of Battles, praise to thee! 
Soon all people shall be free!" 

28 



EASTER, 1918 

THE Easter bells ring in the morn, 
A robin calls the spring; 
The purple crocus is reborn, 

The buds are opening. 
Nature resurgent breathes of hope, 

She blossoms unafraid, 
While heroes fight and bleed and die 
For Liberty betrayed. 

Unheeded is the robin's call, 

In vain the Easter chimes. 
In vain the altar lilies tall 

Whisper of happier times. 
We only hear the children's cries — 

The mothers' piteous moans. 
They mingle with the cannons' roar 

And drown out nearer tones. 

Our spirits call in righteous wrath, 

"Lord God of battles, hear! 
Unloose Thy thunders in their path, 

Thy lightning bid appear!" 
Our heartbeats seem no more our own, 

Their rhythms as we pray 
Swing into unison with guns 

Three thousand miles away. 

29 



Mothers, your prayers and your complaints- 
Children, your piteous cries — 

Must reach high heaven and the saints 
In blissful paradise. 

All angels and archangels stand 
Waiting the fiery word, — 

"Ye cherubim, your trumpets blow! 
Michael, unsheathe your sword!" 

Heroes, ye have not died in vain 

In trench and sea and sky; 
Your souls shall win to earth again 

To lead to victory. 
The Cross flies o'er Jerusalem! 

We sing, this Eastertide, 
"The Son of God goes forth to war"! 

We battle by his side. 



30 



THE AIRMAN 

I DREAM I see him soar on high, 
Remote, as when the swallows 
Cleave through the airy paths of sky, 
And dip in cloudy hollows. 
Ah, love of mine, look far, look nigh! 
Beware, for danger follows! 

A sigh on the horizon's lip; 
A murmur growing nearer; 
Wide wings which like the eagle's dip; 
A menace, showing clearer; 
Sails screaming, like some laboring ship- 
That ship; Ah God! I fear her. 

A beating flame, a clash, a roar; 

A falling shape, unheeding; 

Your pinions unmolested soar, 

You rise exultant, speeding. 

The grim grey danger's past and o'er — 

'Tis not my love lies bleeding. 



31 



! 



YOUR WOMEN AT HOME 

"It takes ten men here to keep one man at the front." 
— Campaign Slogan. 

HAVE you thought, dear boy, how many there are 
Of the women who help you win? 
Whose thoughts o'er the ocean come travelling far 
To you, mid the battle din? 

The mother, too loyal to shed a tear 

The day that you went away; 
The sister who knits, and writes to cheer, 

And the friend of your boyhood's day. 

There's a sweetheart — or is it a brave young wife, 

And perhaps a wee girl-child — 
A part of your own love and life 

Who waved a small hand and smiled? 

But others there are whom you never will know, 

Who are helping just the same; 
They pray for you softly, wherever you go, 

Though they know not your face or name. 

There are girls whose nimble fingers flew 
O'er the threads of the power machine, 

To stitch the khaki or the blue 

That goes to you soft and clean. 

32 



There are women who work in a noisy room 

Where the whirring shuttles fly, 
Doing their bit at the tireless loom 

So you may keep warm and dry. 

And many are giving their youthful bloom 

Where poisoned chemicals lie, 
Where the shells are made that spell the doom 

Of our cruel enemy. 
There are hundreds, thousands, who till the ground, 

Or are cooking in factories, 
Raising the food, and making it sound 

That we send you overseas. 

There are women, women all over the land, 

Who save and patch and mend, 
With willing unaccustomed hand, 

That they may have more to spend 

For you and their country — women who bought 

For adornment, before the war, 
Now count their beauty a thing of naught 

For Freedom — and you mean more. 

And none of them think it a sacrifice 

To toil for you, near and far, 
For each of them wears in her constant eyes 

The Spirit's bright Service Star. 

33 



SERVICE FLAGS 

ACROSS our land a skulking spirit creeps, 
With furtive eyes, and hands that clutch and 
scratch; 
It pauses at each prairie dugout's latch, 
Or where some mountain cottage-doorway keeps 
The winds at bay while the tired miner sleeps; 
It stalks malignant, ever on the watch 
Through town and city, though no eye may catch 
Glimpse of its path, take count of what it reaps. 

You ask the spirit's name? Disloyalty 

It is, reaching with hideous hand 

To menace us from sea to farthest sea. 

What power have we to hold it back like bars — 

Little soft flags, bearing their modest stars, 

The Patriot's Passover, that saves our land! 

February 14th, 1918. 



34 



TO OUR FOREIGN BORN 

STAND forth, you children of a foster mother! 
Stand where our banner waves, our drumbeats 
roll 
From sea to sea, from Tropic to the Pole! 
We, who have hailed you o'er the seas as "Brother," 
Have fed you, roofed you, led you from the smother 
Of old autocracies, have freed your soul 
From ancient fears, have cleansed and made you 

whole 
Under clear skies to live and love each other — 
Make this demand: Will you sit by unheeding 
While true sons die to save you? Will you thrive 
On our rich fields, and warm you by our fire, 
While true sons go unfed in cold and mire? 
Come forth and fight, to keep your souls alive! 
Stand forth and fight where Liberty lies bleeding! 



35 



A SOLDIER SPEAKS 

MY life? What is it but a bladed tool 
Come, newly-welded, from the earth, our 
mother? 
Shall I dare use it for a purpose other 
Than what is taught me at the swordsman's school? 
"Lay it away in wrappings," quoth the fool, 
"Better its edge should dull, that rust should smother 
Its shining brightness, than that man, your brother, 
Should chance to feel its metal, smiting cool." 
Nay, fool! The conflict I will meet serenely — 
The struggle, clash, the chance of early breaking, 
The pain of wounds received, grief at wounds given. 
Each man must wield his life with hand unshaking, 
Must learn to guard, to feint, to thrust forth keenly, 
And laughing die, if fruitless he has striven. 



36 



THE TROOPSHIP 

COULD Cortez in his vision of empery, 
De Leon in his dream of youth unending, 
Foretell these ships that plow the sullen sea 
With golden freight of courage we are sending. 
O ancient harbors, waken from your dreams 
To watch these galleons, laden with great treasure, 
Returning to your olden fountain streams — 
Our debt, repaid in overflowing measure! 
Beat high, O hearts of youth! And young blood race 
Through valiant veins ! Young eyes new to sea- 
faring 
Keep ceaseless watch upon the water's face 
Lest lurking monsters strike with cruel daring! 
Sail softly, silently! Wake not from sleep 
Leviathan, the dastard of the deep! 



37 



TO THE INVADERS 

YOU desecrators of the shrines of Rheims! 
You, from the North, the Vandal's counterpart! 
Will you destroyers of all grace and art 
Trample Italia as you trampled France? 
Touch not historic Venice! Your advance 
Would murder beauty like a poisoned dart, 
Would build a Bridge of Sighs in every heart, 
And win posterity's averted glance. 
We will not brook your further deeds. Take care! 
Not only shall the Lion of St. Mark 
Turn fierce to meet your two-faced vulture beaks, 
But England's Lion, too, fights on. And hark 
Where mighty wings cleave the Atlantic air, 
And through the dawn our proud grey Eagle speaks. 



38 



NEW YEAR, 1918 

WE shall not see our women as of old, 
Mere timid suppliants at the gates of time, 
But waiting where the future points, sublime, 
Commanding, to a destiny unrolled 
In widening fields of service manifold. 
We, the strong women of the nation, now 
Must put our willing shoulders to the plow , 
And plant the grain that brings a harvest's gold. 
Forget ignoble ease, for now is hurled 
A challenge. Ours not only to keep bright 
The olden fires, to do the quiet tasks 
Of household routine. This great future asks 
That we shall help our warrior's swords to smite — 
Shall clothe the naked, feed a hungry world. 



39 



TO THOSE WHO WEEP 

WEEP for young lads asleep on some far hill! 
Weep, as you must, awhile for youth brought 
low! 
No one would rob you of your rightful woe 
For young blood sacrificed, young hearts now still. 
But sorrow not too long. Your days must fill 
With common tasks again; your path must go 
Past where the springs of grief still overflow — 
On bravely o'er the brow of Sorrow's hill; 
For still there comes young laughter, and the call 
Of life, that spurs to fresh endeavoring. 
After the ice melts then the kind rains fall, 
White trilliums bloom again in every spring. 
So flowers of service blossom in us all — 
The human heart is a courageous thing. 



40 



JOYCE KILMER 

WHAT friend of yours can ever see a tree 
Lifting its waving branches to the blue, 
Without some gleaming, glinting thought of you, 
Dear singer of that leafy mystery? 
You felt the trees your kinsmen. It may be 
That when the winds of autumn murmur through 
The gold of ash, the maple's crimson hue, 
The bronze of beech-boughs, — if we listen, we 
May hear a new voice singing, braver far 
Than the old keenings of Octobers fled. 
Then we will say: "Returning from some star 
He comes to us, not from the silent Dead, 
But from that Choir Invisible, who are 
God's singing servants" — and be comforted. 



41 



MONOLOGUES 



1 



CRISTOFANO SPEAKS 

MAESTRO TAFI wakes me from my sleep, 
Clamoring, "Cristofano! Hasten, lad! 
Come, grind my colors for me, ere the rose 
Touches Carrara and begins the day." 
I shiver and I yawn to see him there 
All fat and funny, lecturing away. 
Says he, "My soul already thrills and swells 
With ecstasy at what I plan to do. 
My fingers itch to ply the soft-haired brush 
Which eases to the canvas those sheer weights 
Of pigment which transmute to works of art." 
Corpo di Bacco! listen to the man! 
His pigments and his transmutations, God! 
When I was dreaming of a sunlit cliff 
High in Valdarno, and a wind-warped tree 
Over a tapestry of primulas; 
Silver above, and gold-weave under foot 
Two sat, two only, all the world apart; 
And one of them, Bianca of the curls, 
Was whispering to the other, that was I, 
"Oh love, my love, the world is very sweet, 
And thou and I, of all that God has made, 
Are to each other faithfully inclined"; 
Then lifted she unsullied lips to mine, 
When . . . "Cristofano, sleepy lout! Arise! 
Quick to my call, ere I cold water fling 

45 



Upon that lazy lumpish form of thine!" 
A murrain on his painting, and on him! 
What are his pictures or his scoffs to me, 
Who may not dream Bianca's kiss again? 
For I, forlorn, may have no kiss of hers 
Save only in the boundaries of dream. 
When last beneath that ancient olive-tree 
Came the gold flash that turned to primulas, 
A long, long year ago — they dug her grave. 



46 



THE OLD MAESTRO SPEAKS 

LIGHTLY, boy. Lightly! Colors are not dough 
One forms in little cakes to feed to swine. 
They must go on transparent, so you see 
The soul upon the canvas through the paint. 
Cristo! when now at last I apperceive 
How art is best produced; have learned the trick 
Of placing here a bright note, there a dark, 
Just as Old Messer Sun selects his hues, 
I am benumbed with knavish thieving pains 
That rob my fingers of their supple craft, 
And almost wring the tears, — while here's a lad 
Whose hands are easy-running, joints move free, 
Each hinge bends supple, knows its business, — so. 
I lift one to the light, the quick blood flows 
Keen, shines through flesh in the sharp morning sun. 
His are the hands I make by proxy mine. 
Could I but graft my brain beneath his curls, 
Or better, disengage those hands of his 
To serve my purpose at the nerves' commands — 
We'd have a painter, and a miracle. 

What's that you say, lad? Want a holiday? 
Your Fiametta? And her fiesta? Games? 
Come, come, I'll pay you double, if you stay. 
Well then — be off. I know your sort of old. 
Too tight a check, you only fume and fret; . 

47 



Unwilling hands can only sully art; 

I'll call young Giacomo, he'll gladly come, 

To take your place. He will need soldi soon, 

That silly little wife of his — well, well! 

No matter, but each extra mouth takes food. 

The lad has gone swift-footed. It is hard. 
He is perhaps infinitesmally 
More useful, or less inexpert than t'other. 
They both are for the women; deem an hour 
Spent underneath the sun with a brown girl 
As counting more in worth than a whole day 
Spent at the easel's side, measuring oil, 
Grinding my colors, laying on the paint — 
This way and that in satiny smooth strokes, 
And learning to be painters, like to me. 
Art was my mistress when I had their years. 
Women! I needed none except for this — 
To serve as models. If I could have made 
Lay figures do me, like yon puppet there, 
Whose wooden shoulders hold that velvet robe, 
I had preferred it. Let me try a brush 
Of carmine color for that radiant fold. 
Perhaps my crippled hand will still have power 
For drapery at least. Aie! What a twinge! 
It runs like forked lightning up my arm. 
I'll rest a while. 

48 



Women! They've come and gone; 
Flashed in and out, the fools. Yet one there was, 
Giulia her name — no — yes, 'twas Giulia. 
She seemed a shade less silly than the rest. 
A slender slip of girlhood, pale of cheek, 
With blue eyes where there lurked a wraith of tears, 
Like rain-washed gentians in the autumn breeze. 
She was the Dolorous Mother in the group 
Which first won fame for me. She could stand still 
For hours, could hold her patient face upraised 
With eyes of adoration — had in her 
Some spirit that enabled her to look 
The very creature that I bade her be. 

Then came a day she said, "The picture's done, 

Or nearly so, and I shall come no more. 

Next week they wed me to Porfirio; 

And I must help my mother to prepare 

The feast; and you — you've no more need of me." 

I glanced at her. I saw within her eyes 

Two tears brim out and rest there, rest lash-hung. 

"Stop ! Do not move nor wink," I cautioned her. 

I seized my brush, dipped white, a touch of blue, 

Then painted the two globes of trembling pearl 

That glisten on Madonna's grief-white cheek 

Above the altar, in San Bruno's church. 

"Now come," I called the girl. "The work is done. 

I needed just those two tears to complete 

49 



My picture." She drew near, regarded it 
Strangely a moment, turned to look at me 
With curious gaze, and then, "Farewell," she said. 
"I'm glad I helped your picture," half held out 
A trembling hand, then drew it quickly back. 

"No. Not a touch," — thus strangely then she spoke. 
"My hands, my lips, my duty, these shall go 
To old Porfirio. You, good sir, have had 
Two tears of me and so, good sir, farewell." 
She turned to go, but as she reached the door 
Turned back and spoke again: "You had of me 
My best in those two tears." — Then she was gone. 
A strange pale girl — I never saw her more. 

From that day on my fame stood on two feet, 

I'd learned the trick, to paint a woman's tears; 

Was in demand for chapels, convents, shrines — 

Wherever altars needed the sad face 

With upturned weeping eyes of Mary Queen. 

Some say that Dolci has the better knack. 

Mayhap he has, but I have alchemy, 

For with my brush I can turn tears to gold. 

There came a day I heard two striplings talk 
About my work. "Yes, he is very great, 
On one side only. Art has many sides. 
You note he never tries to paint a smile." 
That angered me. I made a faithful vow 

50 



That ere Sir Death should snatch my brush away 
I'd learn to paint a smile, the tender smile 
Our Lady sheds upon her cradled Lord. 

I've watched and studied every curving mouth 

Where'er I saw a happy mother bend 

Above her baby. Now I think I know 

That trick of smiling, I could paint a mouth 

With lips ready to beam triumphant lines 

Of happy mother-laughter. If the fools 

Want smiles, as well as tears, I'll paint them smiles. 

I know the critic twaddle — "Joy and grief, 

"Art must be many-sided. Heart and hand 

"And head — these make the artist's trinity." 

They prate. The fools. 'Tis hand, 'tis hand that 

counts — 
And this of mine obeys nor head nor heart. 
I must depend on lads like him that's gone, 
Or stupid Giacomo, slow-witted dolts, 
Dull-eyed and unobservant — they who choose 
A tavern table, singing, and a girl, 
Rather than sacred hours spent at a work, 
Might link their names immortally with mine. 

Yet I will not give up. Not yet — not yet. 
Since head and heart hold out there still is time. 
Hulloa down there! Avanti, Giacomo! 
Here's work for thee — and scudi for the wife. 

51 



A MAN SPEAKS OF ROSES 

THREE roses I have had. 
Three rosebuds bloomed upon Life's tree, all 
mine — 
Mine for the plucking by the laws of Life 
Inscrutable. 

In their shy loveliness, their pink and dew, 
From off the thorny branch I gathered them, 
Each in its turn, and each in turn I gave 
Into a woman's hand for cherishing. 

The first most perfect bud was gift for one 

As coldly dewy exquisite as the flower. 

She thanked me with a pensive gentle glance, 

Then laid it carefully between the leaves 

Of some old worn romance. 

From time to time I know 

She takes the faded thing from out the book, 

And looks at it. A mouldering crumbling, sere, 

Odorless simulacrum of what was 

So lovely. 

A form of ashes that a passing gust 

Of the fierce blustering wind, Reality, 

Would crumple into its component dust. 

The second bud, less perfect, went to grace 
A dusky, warm-hued creature — 

52 



Flower-in-bloom she seemed — 

The bud to her recalled — God knows! 

She looked at me and laughed. 

She took the flower, and bending low, face hid, 

She blew hot breath into its pure sweet folds, 

Till it, untimely, opened in her hand. 

Deliberate then she tore the petals off 

From their green calyx, tossed them in the air, 

And laughed and laughed again to see them fall. 

One tiny petal touched me ere it dropped 

And burnt like living coal. 

What hideous alchemy so soon could turn 

A thing so lovely to a thing accursel? 

A third pale bud, a weak-formed, sickly thing 

I gave for keeping to a slender girl, 

Who took it timidly, with trembling hand. 

But she, she cherished it with tenderness, 

And placed its stem within a crystal vase, 

And took it to the comfort of her room. 

It opened to full beauty; 

Every day its golden heart, expanded, richer-hued. 

At the appointed time, softly and noiselessly, 

But with no sadness it let petals fall, 

Like crimson robes outworn. 

These she took up, and with fair spices laid 

To turn to fragrant memory; then — 

With loving craft she cut the thorny stem 

53 



Although her fingers bled. 

She planted, tended it in warmth and sun, 

Till thorns turned shoots, then green fair branches 

came. 
God grant new buds shall blossom for us two! 
It shall be so! 

Oh! bud of perfect and sincere completion, 

That was the least in promise! 

Oh! strange, hard ways of Life, and blinded eyes of 

youth! 
What necessary purpose in those other twain? 
Or since I need must pluck them 
Why, oh! why 

Could I not give them to the tender hand 
Of her whose wisdom knew what roses are? 



54 



INTERVAL 

THE stillness is a fearful thing 
That creeps and crouches menacing — 
And I lie spent. The pain seems sated, 
Or sleeps somewhere, abated 
Because of — what? I knew. 
Because of poppy-dew. 

The whole house sleeps; the worn-out watcher sleeps 
After her anxious hours, 
And out of some strange deeps 
Beyond my utmost powers 
This treacherous silence creeps. 



Oh, I could shriek from dread! 
But listen, ticking clear 
A tiny clock that guards my bed. 
Now four long cries, each like a groan, 
From the old timepiece that is standing 
Like some decrepit servitor, upon the creaking land- 
ing; 
Now farther off the ship-clock's tone 
Proclaims eight bells — eight bells I hear. 
Now change the watch ! They'll change their watch — 
Those Things, those creeping Things, that wait to 

catch 
And overpower and master me at will. 

55 



A momentary vision of the sea, in a far harbor 

underneath a hill, 
Where my dear love and I once dreamed together, 
One afternoon, of soft Pacific weather, 
Watching the sea-gulls circle, soar and dip — 
When from an anchored ship 
Came eight clean strokes, and a man's call 
Across the water, and we held our breath 
At beauty of it all. 

Now I wait . . . 

What traffic have I with beauty? Is it death 

Knocks at the gate? 

Peace, morbid fool, that is myself! Give over; 
Lay hold of what is clean; think of white clover 
And sunny fields, and brown sweet earth, of which 
you have been lover. 

Think of the spring and seeds and little shoots 
And tiny reaching baby-fingered roots, 
And all things fresh and gentle and most calm. 
All these shall be again for you, and soon. 
Can you not feel sweet Nature's reaching palm 
Pulling you up out of your spirit's swoon? 

Yes, but that other hand that I would shun 
Pulls too, and clutches. Nature holds but one, 

56 



While that relentless other drags me whither 
My voyaging has trended, 

Since that first day and morn when I was born 
To this, when all my little day seems ended. 

I fear that unknown port. Must I drift thither? 

The sound of waves is beating in my ears; 

I drown in fears. 

Will no one, no one come? . . . And still that pain 

is there 
Crouching, somewhere — 

And that strange other thing, creaks on the stair. 
It's at my door. It's here! I'm such a fool; 
Did I shriek, doctor? I am so ashamed. 
I'm really not so nervous as a rule; 
And yet, somehow, I hardly can be blamed. 
You never came so late as this before. 
"Early," you say? Yes, that describes it more — 
Exactly. Doctor, I've felt the strangest fear — 
Somebody, some thing, somewhere, there, or here. 
I can't explain — it lurked and hid and crept . . . 
"The Morphine? Have I slept?" I have not slept. 
"Too weak a dose?" Don't give it me again. 
The pain is awful, but I'll take the fain!" 



SLEEPLESS IN THE CITY 

THE great fierce hum, the city's din and strife 
Sing into sullen rhythmic far-off beats, 
Like some vast heart pulsing an angry tune. 
The passing steps of men sound faint and far, 
Save when some boisterous drunken reveller 
Distorts the quiet with his careless song. 
From time to time along the asphalt street 
The tired-out cab-horse plop-plop-plops toward home, 
To win his hard-earned rest a little while. 
From time to time some demon motor shrieks, 
Cutting the night, air with a knife of sound. 

I lie awake counting the chiming hours. 
I hear the whistles of the far-off ships — 
Filled, who can tell? with sleepless folk like me. 
Weep they for grief at what they leave behind? 
Weep they for fear at what the future holds? 
Weep they like me, who know both grief and fear? 
Stillness, that is not still; darkness, that is not dark; 
What do ye hold of misery and tears? 

Through the night's minor, comes a saner note, 
Striking the daytime's key of constant tasks; 
The whistle of the milklad to his horse, 
The rattle of the bottles that he leaves 
Little white sentries, outside every door. 
Why speculate? I've still three hours to sleep! 

58 



LOT'S WIFE 

THE angel spake: "Jehovah is not blind. 
He sees your city deeply choked in sin, 
And bids ye flee, nor dare to look behind, 
While His consuming flames shall enter in 
To purge it clean of His Almighty wrath." 
Then did we flee affrighted up the path. 
But I, although I joined in that mad race, 
Felt my heart growing heavy, for it yearned 
O'er the forsaken city as it burned, 
Dwelling in turn on each remembered place. 



The house where I was born; the stone-rimmed well 

Where first I peered to see my childish face; 

The court, where with my mother, at our ease, 

We wove upon the loom faint traceries, 

While her soft voice admonished, or would tell 

Old tales her mother once had taught to her. 

Then that fair other house where as a bride, 

My husband, o'er the threshold flower-strewn, wide, 

Lifted me in his arms in joyous pride, 

To rule its pleasant domesticities. 

There were my children born, who side by side 

Played in the sunlit court, with merry din, 

Or dozed among the Oleander's shade. 

Thus, scarcely thinking how it was a sin, 

59 









Or, that Jehovah's self I disobeyed, 

For one last backward look my feet I stayed. 

For that one backward look He punished me. 
These latter days I brood within my stone, 
Thinking in my dumb way of what is gone. 
The others of those fleeing, where are they? 
The men were brave. Doubtless they labored well, 
Hewed timber, smote the rock, built a new town 
Where safe at eventide they laid them down. 
Alas, I nothing know. None comes to tell. 

The women? Did they mourn for many a day, 
Or did they turn with courage to the task 
Of settling the new homes in that far place? 
Did none among them ever miss my face, 
Nor of my fate did any care to ask? 
Did Oleanders new grow like the old? 
Were the new well-springs bubbling fresh and cold? 
Who knows? Who cares? The World moves on 
apace. 

Yet, (did I dream?) I heard faint voices speak 
Of a new God, our great Jehovah's son, 
Born of a woman who was like to me 
Save that she sinless was, while I was weak. 
They spoke of Him as merciful, this One; 

60 



So in my soul which dies not, I do trow 
That being born of woman, He will know 
Something of that within, which turns and clings 
To what is past — the dear remembered things. 
Some day, when with the Father He doth plead 
For sinners, to my case He may give heed, 
Till great Jehovah for the love he bears 
His Son, will listen to my piteous prayers, 
And will forgive — and then I shall be freed. 



61 



AFTER THE ACCIDENT 
(A Dancer Speaks) 

SO I'm to be dead and done with, and my danc- 
ing days all over! 
My eyes'll be dim to the flashing lights, 
And my ears be dulled to the clapping! 
Still I'll be, all the body of me, 
And my eyes won't know is it days or nights, 
And my ears lie drowned under long dim waves of 
silence lapping. 

Well! I have been happy, and I have been gay, 

with lovers many; 
And to some I gave but my finger-tips, 
And to some a touch of warm red lips, 
And to some a sigh, or a flash of the eye; 
But all I gave was for friendliness, and not for any 

man's penny. 
I followed my calling and danced my dance, 
And when some gave me the look askance, 
And smiled and asked me a word they shouldn't, 
They found in me a girl they couldn't 
Cajole nor cozen with flattering speech 
Into easy reach. 

Only my dancing has paid for my roof. 
From that easy path for a dancer's treading 
Where many a sister's ways were heading, 
There was something within me held aloof. 

62 



So now it's over, and I am done for; 
And though my youth is still befriending 
My years, they must come to a sudden ending. 
Over's the race, and the prize I've run for 
Is still ungrasped, and I don't know rightly 
What the prize was. Was it worth the winning — 
Worth turning aside from the pleasant sinning 
And rosy temptations that beckoned nightly? 

No time to answer, so fast I'm going. 

And "have I a wish I'd be expressing?" 

Only a few. You'd never be guessing 

Of the little town by the river's flowing; 

So quiet a town, that it used to seem then 

In the childish days and the ways I'd dream then, 

That all too quiet were town and street 

For my dancing heart, and my dancing feet. 

Take me back to that quiet town. 

In the little old churchyard lay me down, 

Where the crosses are green with moss overgrown, 

Where the girls I knew and left, will be singing, 

And the queer old bell will give a ringing. 

Then, when all's done, put a little stone 

With my name and years. But instead of text 

Or word of this world or the next, 

Just carve this message where all may see — 

"Here lies all that you knew of me." 

63 



"A BRITTLE WORLD" 
(A Child Speaks) 

I CAME from somewhere, to a brittle world. 
All round about me there are pretty things, 
The kind I want to feel, and learn about; 
Yet I must never touch them so they say. 

"They" are the grown-ups who are just like kings, 
Who have the say-so over all my world 
And me, and touch whatever they may like. 

I found out long ago that bubbles break — 

Those rainbow things my pipe draws from the 
suds; 

Soon I found out that gay balloons burst too. 

They gave me splendid toys at Christmas time. 

I only played with them a little while; 

Soon nothing seemed to work exactly right, 

And Mother said, "He's a destructive child." 

The china pig that held my pennies tight 

Dropped from my hands, and smashed to little 
bits, 
And all my money rolled about the floor. 
They brought me a new iron bank, like a safe. 
It's not at all the same. I loved that pig. 

64 



The cream-jug too. I knocked it off the tray. 

Nurse didn't mind the cream, "There's plenty 
more," 
She said, "But oh! Your mother will be vexed, 

That cream-jug's gone! She fairly loved that 
jug!" 
Does Mother, too, think it a brittle world?" 
The garden's always full of brittle things. 
I pick the flowers while they're bright and gay, 

But soon they wilt and droop and are no good. 

I'm growing older and would like to play 

With great, big boys out in the fields and street. 
But am not let, for / am brittle too. 

My cousin Jim has smashed a collar bone. 
My cousin Ned, they tell me, broke his leg. 

I broke a tooth myself the other day, 
And Uncle Frank, I heard my mother tell, 
To Daddy, when she thought I was asleep, 

Had his heart broken, by some horrid girl. 

But worst of all. Just lately came a time 
When Mother asked a question, and I fibbed, 

Because I was afraid she'd punish me. 
Then she looked sad, and shook her head and said, 

"My little boy must never break his word." 
Oh! it's a brittle world for little boys. 

I like it though; I very often think 
A boy, if let alone, could have such fun. 

65 



EPISODE 

OUT of the clouded cavern-deeps of sleep 
My spirit climbed, bewildered and dismayed. 
My opening eyes saw my familiar room. 
Dimly each object shone in a blurred light, 
That entered where my casement was flung wide — 
Part city lamp, and part pin-pointed stars 
Pricked through the taut-drawn blackness overhead. 
A hush lay on the town. Low-gabled roofs 
Icicle-hung, snow-shrouded, lay beneath 
My window; then a tiny stretch of bare 
Bleak ground, abandoned out-worn garden-plot; 
Thefn higher roofs again, where people dwelt 
In a grey by-street — an uncharted place, 
So near my neighborhood, yet worlds apart. 

It was the hour when mystic surging tides 
Of life prepare to meet returning day, 
Reversing through the sleeping veins of man 
Strange deep involuntary waves of fear, 
As though the dormant soul preferred to sleep 
Endlessly, rather than take up the strife. 

There was a sense of some strange questing thing — 
A quivering expectancy, a hush 

Came pushing toward me through the glacial cold; 
Then almost as if it were in my room 

66 



I heard her voice. It pierced from out the cold, 

Stabbing the silence with its anguished notes; 

It came despairing, wailing, tense, as if 

The words came, not from body, but from soul, 

Tearing her inmost being as they came. 

Their utterance seemed as though her life came, too, 

Leaving her body. "She is gone," she cried. 

"She is gone forever. I shall never see 

Her more." Then silence pulsing, cruel-cold. 

I sprang from bed. I leaned out to the night. 

It was no dream. Somewhere out in that night 

Behind one of those windows shining there, 

A bleak cold shimmer — Death had waved his sword. 

One soul had passed, and one was left to mourn. 

So much I knew, though stillness peered and lurked. 

Who was it wept? Mother, or sister? Friend? 

I crept back shivering to my waiting bed, 

And, "Woman, may God help you!" surged my 

prayer; 
And, "Woman! God grant that you somehow feel 
That I am with you, O poor soul, bereft!" 
I stretched my hand out through the empty black. 
"O woman, may God let you feel my hand!" 

Not till grey dawn stole the fast-fading stars 
Out of the winter sky, could I win sleep. 

67 



Later, when sunlight came, I searched the doors 
Of the bleak by-street. There already hung 
The shabby crepe upon a narrow door 
Which opened to a steep-staired tenement 
Above a meat-shop. My heart failed me. What 
Apology my entrance might demand? 
"Dreams," "Voices," Fancies?" So my courage failed. 
Her soul and mine met somewhere in the dark. 
I dared not risk a spoken word by day. 

In the long column of La Presse that night, 
Where cold type gives, in short, the tragedies 
Of many firesides, I found only this, 
That "Madame So-and-so of such a street 
Had died before the dawn. The funeral 
Would be at Such a Church, at such a time." 

Was it for nothing that I woke that night? 

Or to a sister did I bridge some gulf? 

I dare not guess. God knows. Perhaps I did. 



68 



A RHYMESTER SPEAKS 

ORIGINALITY? Critics, that is a theme 
On which I claim no wisdom. This I know 
Only — that you and those strange mysteries 
The editors, who stay securely hid 
In office fastnesses I seldom scale, 
Hint (or, don't hint, but say in plainest speech) 
That these my songs are reminiscences. 
"You've read your Browning." "Houseman echoes, 

faint 
Without his magic," "Dobson, sans the touch 
That makes of Dobson's verse an elfin thing." 
So you all say, and you are doubtless right. 
Faint echoes mine, of better, braver songs. 

And why not echoes? I am rather pleased, 
Than grieved to know that certain lovely cries, 
Poets have called to the resounding hills 
Of memory, should faintly sound again, 
When this, my voice, gives out its timid notes. 

These hands and feet, these eyes, and ears, this 

heart — 
Yes, every bit of the material me — 
Is but an echo of a vanished thing. 
Rocks ground to powder, in some by-gone age, 

69 



Flowers long since dust, re-bloomed and dust again 
For centuries, bloom now in stranger wise; 
Chlorophyl color of the forest leaf 
Turns red to show the sap of life in me. 

So, too, that immaterial, that other me, 

Mind, spirit, soul, ego, or what you will, 

Is, so I take it, probably no more 

Than soul-spun dust of other souls passed on. 

They leave their gypsy patteran behind — 

A spiritual trail of this and that, 

Thoughts, dreams, ambitions, fancies, hopes and 

quests; 
These for a while I breathe, and echo forth 
As if they were my own; yes — and I think 
That momentarily they are my own, 
As is a part of the great atmosphere, 
While I am breathing it, my "very breath." 

Echoes, then, if you like; I need not care. 
Echoes, O wise young critics, editors 
Wise and discerning. Echoes, if you will. 
God rest you merry! I'll go echoing on. 



70 



SONNETS 



CARPE DIEM 

IF this were my last day I'm almost sure 
I'd spend it working in my garden. I 
Would dig around my little plants and try 
To make them happy, so they would endure 
Long after me. Then I would hide secure 
Where my green arbor shades me from the sky, 
And watch how bird and bee and butterfly 
Came hovering to every flowery lure. 
Then, while I rest, perhaps a friend or two, 
Lovers of flowers, would come, and we would walk 
About my little garden-paths, and talk 
Of peaceful times, when all the world seemed true. 
This may be my last day, for all I know. 
What a temptation just to spend it so! 



73 



RAVINIA 

THE rushing winds their prophecies begin 
Of autumn, and the harvests ripening yellow. 
Each swaying tree bends whispering to its fellow, 
While rising high above their rustling din, 
A girl sings the Berceuse, from "Jocelyn"; 
And Steindel's magic bow, upon the 'cello, 
Mourns out an obligato full and mellow, 
That pleads unto my heart, and enters in. 
Once, in the days before this clash of war, 
This song to me came winging from afar, 
With soft melodious prophecies of pain; 
Today it tells no tale of unfelt grief, 
But for a moment's solace brings relief 
To thoughts, that wear the soul like autumn rain. 



74 



TO E. R. G. 

THIS year, I think the coming of the spring 
Will bring a sadder beauty, than I knew 
In days gone by, because this springtime you 
Will not be here to watch its blossoming. 
Across the Skokie Fields the birds will sing; 
Hid in the grass the violet's dim blue 
Will shine forth shyly, but the lovely hue 
This year, sweet tear-wet memories must bring 
Of days we spent in the clear autumn weather 
In happy talk, our pleasant future planning, 
Of rambles in the woods we took together, 
Of garden walks, our flowery treasures scanning. 
Can you forget, when plucking asphodel, 
The simple mortal flowers you loved so well? 



75 



THE SECOND WIFE 

I LIKE to think he met her at the gate 
With eager eyes, and tense, expectant smile. 
He who had left her but a little while, 
May still have found that little long to wait. 
Did she hold back a moment from his kiss? 
Did she glance round, half wondering and in fear, 
Saying: "I thought that I should find her here, 
Whose sweet companionship your life did miss." 
I think, if so, he only answered, "Who 
Is it you mean?" And she, half-tremblingly 
Would answer, "Ariana. It was she 
You sometimes longed for. Yes — I knew — I knew." 
Then he — "I have forgotten utterly 
Her name. In Heaven I long for only you." 



76 






CANDLES 

HE faced the altar, spoke the Sacred Name, 
Then turned. It was a text of Death he read. 
"Live that ye meet it fearlessly," he plead. 
To prove Death but a gateway was his aim. 
I watched the altar-candle's flickering flame 
Twist like a living creature; riveted 
My eyes upon that incandescence fed 
By patterned atoms. "A mere touch could tame 
That glow," I thought; "Or does it but release? 
Energy is transformed; it does not die. 
The impulse changes only, cannot cease, 
But reaches out into Immensity. 
So we, so we our earthly flame once done, 
May reach free faring to the farthest sun!" 



77 



NAPOLEON'S DEATH-MASK 

I STOOD within the stately Invalides, 
Your nation's gift, a domed funeral pile. 
I left the circled tomb to gaze awhile 
In that dim alcove where who will may read 
The legend of your still face, at their need. 
'Twas Pain, the ancient sculptor tooled that smile 
Inscrutable, chiselled the pensive guile 
On lips whose curves murmur to those who heed — 
"I who have stood upon Life's mountain peak 
With hands outstretched to clutch the treasure spread 
For those who, fearing not, aspire and seek, 
Now cry to all mankind, 'Humble your tread'!" 
Ah! stone-cold lips, though silent, still ye speak 
A living message from the living dead. 



78 



WHAT YOU HAVE WRIT 

WHAT you have writ is the world's heritage. 
The world and I may read, if reading please, 
Gathering your thoughts like leaves from branchy 

trees, 
Or plucking flowers unsullied from your page. 
Between book-covers we make pilgrimage 
To lost Atlantis, or the Pleiades, 
Journeying in your gleaming Argosies, 
Mere listless seekers for a Golden Age. 
But from your pages to the world outspread 
I may distil essential message, sweet 
As that rare ointment, once so gently shed 
By Magdalen upon the Savior's feet. 
Who knows? Some service this poor handmaid, too, 
May render through a grace she learned from you. 



79 



SONNETINA 
To M. F. C. 

KIND eyes that always wish me well, 
Dear voice, whose cadences have lent 
Me hope and sweet encouragement — 
If hand could write, if heart could tell 
My love, I think these words would spell 
In letters gold, page flower-besprent, 
A veritable document 

Of worth that should your pride compel. 
But if among these songs you find 
A winged word, or if you see 
A gentler phrase, a thought more kind 
Than ordinary thoughts, then say, 
"I think she plagiarized from me," 
And scold me gently, dear, someday. 



I BUILT ME PINCHBECK PALACES 

I BUILT me pinchbeck palaces of dream 
From out the past, nor recked how day by day 
Life, the great builder, reared across the way 
A nobler structure, rising, wall and beam, 
Of truer metal. Better far did seem 
The fabric of my fancy, than what lay 
So close, so tangible. I answered "Nay" 
To the immediate. Shadows reigned supreme. 
Then on a day came Time, with testing glass 
And searching acid, and a subtle flame 
That seared my soul, and thus it came to pass 
I learned, that Life had only been a name 
Till then. I left my bauble dreams, and turned 
To face my future, tested, scarred and burned. 



81 



IF THOUGHTS ARE NOTHING 

IF thoughts are nothing, then there is no fault 
If mine to you unswervingly must wing, 
Drawn from my loneliness and suffering. 
No bars can hold, no sentinels can halt 
Their timid, fond, intangible assault. 
But if a thought should prove to be a thing 
Actual, potent, these of mine need bring 
No bitter myrrh from memory's grey vault; 
But rather like some salve, that soothes to rest 
An ancient aching wound, like healing balm 
Used in the eastern lands to lave the head, 
Until the traveller slumbers, comforted — 
So may my ministering thoughts, unguessed, 
Bring you a gentle respite, and a calm. 



82 



BALLADS, SONGS AND CATCHES 



BALLADE OF BASIL 

SHELTERED away from the noontide heat, 
Amid humming of bees and twitter of 'start, 
I lounge in the shade on the arbor seat, 
And read an old book of "Ye Simpler's Arte." 
The columbines nod, and the butterflies dart 
As I pore over "herbes that make men whole," 
For "Basil hath properties never departe, 
Procureth a merrie and cheerfulle soule." 

"Mandragora brings slumber sweete." 
I read as the leaf-shadows fall athwart 
The yellowing pages. "For ease compleat 
Ye cordial of marigold helpeth ye harte." 
"Balsame will cure ye of passion's smarte." 
"Mallowe hath vertue that stayeth dole." 
But "Basil hath properties never departe, 
Procureth a merrie and cheerfulle soule." 

"Melancholie ye well may treate 

With thyme, it will ward off ye humours swarte." 

"Tansy keepeth ye temper sweete." 

"Sorrel cooles bloode through its flavour tarte." 

"Balme is the unguent if burn hath scartte 

Ye flesh (such as cometh from brande or coale)." 

But "Basil hath properties never departe, 

Procureth a merrie and cheerfulle soule." 

85 



Prince in your palace, or down in the mart, 
On throne of gold, or in tumbril cart, 
Basil's your herb, come tide, come shoal — 
"Procureth a merrie and cheerfulle soule." 



86 



BALLADE OF OLD TALES 

STORIES whose magic never can fade, 
Heroes whose glories must wax, not wane, 
Lion-heart Richard, never gainsaid, 
Arthur the king without fault or stain, 
Roderiguez, the Cid of Spain, 
Roland, the noble Olivier, 

Whose horn could summon great Charlemagne- 
What better tales can you read today? 



Ladies of olden romance, the Maid 
Of Orleans, dying in fiery pain, 
Katherine Douglas, the unafraid, 
Noble Sir Lancelot's white Elaine, 
Patient Griselda who wouldn't complain, 
Black Medea, Morgan le Fay, 
Iphigenia, who pleaded in vain — 
What better tales can you read today? 

Islands, where golden young dreams were made, 
Lost Atlantis sunk deep in the main, 
The isle where Paul and Virginia played, 
The island of Sappho's undying strain, 
Crusoe's island — or that one again 
Where the Swiss Family dwelt 'neath the palm- 
tree's sway, 

87 



The isle where Circe wove witchery's chain- 
What better tales can you read today? 

Laddies, if these old tales you disdain, 
You've much to lose, and little to gain. 
Laughing lasses, tell me I pray, 
What better tales can you read today? 



88 



ET EGO IN RIVERSIDE VIXI 

I TOO dwelt there, from Riverside have sprung, 
Before its present celebrated age 
When Lardner, doughty, black-eyed Niebelung, 
Plays it up daily on the sporting page. 
Those were the days more simple and more sage. 
We sought not notoriety's long ear. 
More homely matters did our lives engage; — 
Where's the old Riverside of yesteryear? 

Keen winter sports with skates or slide or pung, 
Spring joys with Violet-island pilgrimage; 
In Indian Garden summer songs we sung, 
With none but birds to give us espionage; 
Through autumn copse with hazel-nuts for wage 
We ranged in careless youth, enchanted, dear, 
By woods beloved of faery and mage; — 
Where's the old Riverside of yesteryear? 

Our names were not on Sunday's sheet outflung; 
We had no social yearnings to assuage 
By climbing tottering ladders rung on rung, 
Arid printed portraits filled our souls with rage. 
Humble suburban squirrels in our cage 
Of simple round of routine year by year 
We ran, nor deemed such life a hermitage. 
Where's the old Riverside of yesteryear? 

89 



Whither, O tall and multi-gifted Ring, 
Has vanished that dear place of which I sing? 
Into what limbo, shadow-hung and drear, 
Has gone the Riverside of yesteryear? 






90 



VANISHED YOUTH 

WHETHER I'm shopping for hat or hose, 
Outerwear, underwear, pins or netting, 
Whether I ask for cerise or rose, 
Whether it's brooms or tin pans I'm getting, 
Whether I'm rushing to sales, or letting 
Other folks catch all the bargains early, 
This is the fact I find upsetting: — 
All of the salesladies call me "Girlie." 

Into the faraway long agos 

Days of my girlhood have flown, past fretting. 

Gone are the raptures of balls and beaux; 

Ribbons and folderols and coquetting 

Fled to the limbo of far forgetting, 

Along with blushes and ringlets curly. 

Yet I feel skittish and pirouetting: — 

All of the salesladies call me "Girlie." 

Mirrors discourage me, goodness knows, 
Hint of the sere, and of sunlight setting; 
Twinges rheumatic oft cause me woes, 
White threads gleam in my coiffure's jetting. 
Yet when discouragement's tears are wetting 
My cheek, and my temper feels grim and surly, 
I soon cheer up, and I cease from fretting: — 
All of the salesladies call me "Girlie." 



91 



Dear Prince Charming, I can't help betting 
On fortune's chances, so strange and whirly. 
I'm not yet past the age of petting: — 
All of the salesladies call me "Girlie." 



92 



"BUNGAROO"* 

WHEN over-fatigued and weary enough 
To drop, then I sometimes try to shirk 
My duty, and browse in some high-brow stuff, 
Forgetting my business and Red Cross work. 
Then I pick up, with self-conscious smirk, 
That erudite volume, The English Review; 
But today I am knifed with this verbal dirk — 
"Write for that plopp-eyed bungaroo!" 

What is its meaning, that terrible phrase? 

Offspring of Jepson's mental murk? 

I puzzle and puzzle with wits adaze. 

Is it Bohemian, Slav or Turk? 

Does secret cipher significance lurk 

Where those strange symbols flash from the blue? 

Is it Welsh or Sinn Fein, or some Scottish quirk — 

"Write for that plopp-eyed bungaroo." 

When he wrote "that fat-headed western ruck," 
I wonder if Edgar winked and smiled, 
And stuck his tongue in his cheek like Puck, 
Saying: "This should make 'em all jolly well riled!" 
When wells of such English undefiled 
Spring pure from covers of Prussian hue, 

*Mr. Edgar Jepson, in the English Review, calls The 
Middle Westerner "that plopp-eyed bungaroo !" 

93 



Should not new vocabularies be compiled? 
"Write for that plopp-eyed bungaroo." 

O prints of England! O Oxford Die! 
We want to be wise and autocthonic. 
But we can't to our nobler selves be true 
Till we "write for that plopp-eyed bungaroo. 



94 



A BALLADIST BOASTETH 

DARING metrist, who weaves today 
A mystic, unmeasured, nebulous strand 
Out of your fancy, hear what I say! 
I write what present folk understand — 
Simple songs of a nearby land, 
Humble emotions, in no new blends, 
Well-worn similes, nothing grand — 
These are liked by my mother's friends. 

You who are writing, as well you may, 
For the eyes of tomorrow, tomorrow's hand 
May cherish your volumes, and feel their sway; 
I write what present folk understand. 
When verses of mine shall be as the sand 
Of the desert, blown back to oblivion's ends, 
Yours may be reigning in high command — 
These are liked by my mother's friends. 

Friends, whose temples are touched with gray— 
Whom Experience crowned with a silver band- 
Tell me they cherish my roundelay. 
I write what present folk understand. 
For far horizons your ships are planned; 
My fleet for hitherward islands trends. 
Your verse by the ages may be scanned — 
These are liked by my mother's friends. 

95 



Brilliant young futurists, imagists grand, 
I write what present folk understand. 
"My work's out-dated?" Well, that depends- 
These are liked by my mother's friends. 



96 



ECHO 

LONG in this valley she dwelt, 
Echo, the lovely, the musical; 
Echo the hidden, the laughing singer unseen, 
Merrily calling the bird-notes, 
Tenderly mocking the wind's cries, 
Whispering back laughter of leaves to the aspens 
and willows. 

Now she is weeping, is weeping, poor Echo, faint- 
hearted. 
Weeping and hidden she mourns over men and their 
sorrows; 
Unsleeping and chidden by clamors of grief 
never-ending; 
Heart-tearing moans of the stricken, 
Undertones vanquished and bitter 

Of men overcome by hard taskmasters, 
Women whose lives are but burden. 

All of these sounds inharmonious 

And jangling, she draws to her heart, 
Then hurls them forth, doubling, repeating, 

Till the heavens resound to their troubling. 
The sweetest of all of her songs 

Is the bitterest, bitterest. 
The cry of young children unsmiling, 

Who know neither sunshine, nor laughter. 

97 



Echo, shrink back from the contaminating 

Touch of the town, with its noises defiling. 

You who once sang like the spirit of spring, 
Your voice is a troubling. 

Forget us, O Echo; flee back 

To the great distant hills with their vastnesses. 

Hide you there pure; 

Come not to us, 

Till the sweet day dawn when mankind grown clean 
again 

Dares call you forth from those dim distant fast- 
nesses, 

In voices by service made true and serene again. 

Singing— 

"We lift up free eyes 

Unabashed to the sun. 
Untrammelled and joyful 

We call to thee, call to thee. 
Echo, come give again laughter of children, 

Sighs of young lovers, and murmurings of 
mothers, 
Sweep of clean winds, and the note of the waters, 
And stout cries of men o'ercoming the elements. 
Echo return, Echo return!" 



98 



THE TWO SONGS 

I SING thee a song with my lips. 
Thou criest: "Sing again, sing again 
That song, for I love thy sweet singing." 

There's a song in my heart all the while 
Lies silent and dumb and unsung. 
Wouldst thou cry, "Sing again, sing again, 
If I sang what is hid in my heart? 

Nay. 'Tis only the flower we love — 
The color and beauty and glow. 
Who cares for the roots in the dark, 
That labor to bring forth that flower? 

'Tis the joy and the lilt of my song, 
That thou and the world long to hear; 
The song that is hid in my heart 
Is a song rooted deep in despair. 



99 



SONG 

WHEN that I was young, 
Merry went my ways; 
Carelessly I sung, 
Prodigal of days. 

Now that I am old, 
A silent miser I, 
Clutching the moments gold 
As they swiftly fly. 



100 



IF I WERE SPOILER OF THE SKIES 

I'D stretch my fingers out to seize 
The fringes of the Pleiades, 
And weave them into tapestries 

Of color and of grace. 
A bunch of little stars I'd take 
And fling them down into the lake, 
To watch the ripples tear and break 
Their spangles into lace. 

I'd rip the moon out from the skies, 
Cut it in twain and cornerwise, 
And rub the pieces in my eyes 

To open up my sight, 
Till dreams of earth should shine as plain 
As meadow flowers after rain, 
And real things fade away again 

Like mists into the night. 

And last of my celestial fun, 

I'd stretch my hand out for the sun, 

And rip its petals one by one 

To where its fire heart lies; 
I'd cup the flame, and lift it high 
Until it burst in melody. 
All this I'd do if only I 

Where spoiler of the skies. 

101 



I 



AT THE LOOM 

'LL have no traffic with the stars, they are not 

good for me; 
I must content myself, men say, with earth and wind 

and sea, 
For the black sky, the scattered stars, are filled with 

mystery. 



I roamed the fields a summer's night, under a fad- 
ing moon; 

I plucked white daisies for a wreath, and happily 
did croon 

A little song that I had made, set to a simple tune. 

"This daisy's from the girdle of Andromeda, the fair; 
And here's a misty chaplet flung from Berenice's hair. 
These flowers I tuck behind my ears are Vega and 
Altair." 

But one came by with eyes of fear, and tore my 

starry hood, 
And said I must not sing my song of stars, it was 

not good 
For me. I think he heard my song, but had not 

understood. 

102 



And so I sit here at my loom and weave the shuttle 

through 
The woollen threads as silently as all the others do — 
They do not know Aldebaran shines through the 

homespun blue. 



SONG 

HUSHED is the cricket's song. 
The rustling grasses cease 
Their murmuring idle talk, 

And the aspens are at peace; 
For a passing bird has told 

Of my coming, O my sweet! 
And all of Nature, listening, waits 
The music of thy feet. 



103 



DEWDROP 



"pvEWDROP on the spray, 



Timid child of morn, 



u 

What thy mission, say, 
Trembling on the thorn? 

"Mine a mission blest, 
For a little space 
In my crystal breast 
Apollo sees his face." 



SONG 

WHEN Life has measured out those griefs, 
Whose weight no mortal may decline, 
I'll bear my own as best I may, 
Dear Love, and help bear thine. 

When Life metes out those flowers of joy, 
Whose garlands deck our earthly shrine; 
When all thy share are faded, worn, 
Take mine, dear Love, take mine. 



104 






STRONGHOLD 

I'VE a little fortress, 
A refuge all my own, 
Stronger than the strong oak, 
Mightier than stone, 
Frailer than a moth's wing, 
Dimmer than the dawn, 
Slighter than the poplar down 
Or cobweb on the lawn. 

In that secret fortress — 
Hidden soul of me — 
Tapestried with beauty, 
Floored with memory, 
I withdraw in silence, 
Let the portcullis fall; 
Then in silence brood I 
Peaceful, o'er my all. 

Birdsong after sunset, 
Bird before the morn, 
Children's song and laughter, 
(Children never born) 
These make up my music 
In that hidden goal; 
These break the pure silence 
In the fortress of my soul. 

105 



TO EVELYN 
{On her wedding day) 

YOU cannot see my offering, 
Too frail and pale it gleams. 
I bring to you a fragile thing, 
A tiny ship of dreams. 

But though the vessel's very small, 

Its cargo, so I'm told, 
Will hold the hopes and dreams of all 

This wondrous glittering world. 

And though Time's tempests beat and blow, 

And Trouble's billows roar, 
Safe, safe your ship of dreams shall go 

With happiness as store. 

So long as on its golden deck 

Two steadfast lovers stand, 
Your ship of dreams shall never wreck, 

But safely come to land. 



106 



CHRISTMAS IN THE SLUMS 

THEY sang of myrrh and frankincense, 
And far-off Eastern things, 
Of shepherds dreaming on the hills, 
Of angels and of kings. 

They sang, those children of the slums, 
With voices glad and strong; 

With wistful smiles and wondering hearts 
They sang their Christmas song. 

And though they saw no angels come 
Down from the heaven above, 

Yet every child felt reverence, 
And every child felt love. 

And a soft light, not of this earth, 

Shone on them from afar — 
For each knew what a baby was — 

Each child had seen a star! 



107 



MY SONGS 

I SANG my songs, my songs, 
Unhampered of joy or pain, 
Till you bound me fast with your love 
As with a mighty chain, 

And I fell on silence then, 

For my heart swelled too full for speech, 
And who could sing her songs, 

When words were out of her reach? 

You have set me free of your love; 

You have left me bond to pain. 
The light has gone out of the heavens — 

But I sing again, again. 



108 



MEMORIES 

OH! I'm back in the busy city 
With its murky smoke, and grime, 
But my heart is afar 
Where the memories are, 
Of another place, and time. 

Sunset on the far Pacific 

While our boat sweeps through the blue, 

And the white gulls dip 

In the wake of the ship, 
And I think of you, of you. 

The fair green hills of the mainland 
Gleam soft in the evening haze; 

And the islands seem 

Like a land in a dream, 
As they fade away from my gaze. 

Oh! Life's work-a-day hurry, and worry 
Depart from me, now and then, 

When the ocean's blue 

And the thought of you 
Come back to my heart again. 



109 



THE TIPTOE DREAM 

CAME a little tiptoe dream 
Knocking at my door. 
"Away," I cried, "You troublous elf; 
I do not need you more." 

But after while I changed my mind, 
And opened wide the door. 

"Come back, you little tiptoe dream!" 
But oh! it comes no more. 



IMPORTANCE 

THE mosses remarked to the old oak tree, 
"My, you'd be cold if it wasn't for me." 
The vine that clung to its branches tall 
Said, "Friend, without me you would certainly fall!" 

Now the wind stripped the tree of its viny sheath, 
And the moss was used for a Christmas wreath; 
But the oak will stand till the century ends 
Without the aid of its bragging friends. 

Do you feel important sometimes? I do. 

But the World can get on without me, or you. 

110 



I AM THY LOVER, LIFE 

AH! Life, I am thy lover. Not as those 
Who loving, and beloved of thee again, 
Cherish thee like some wonder-blossoming rose, 
Whose petal promise hourly doth disclose 
Where hidden gold-heart beauty long has lain. 

Nay Life, nor do I love as one who knows 
Only love's questing, quivering minor strain, 
Fraught with grief-filled denials, or the woes 
Of cold indifferent touch, or cruel blows 
That stab the spirit, leave the ardor slain. 



I am thy lover, Life, as one who fain 

Of no reward, steps forth triumphant, goes 

Marching and singing through the wind and rain, 

Filled with deep courage and a high disdain 

For those whom fear surmounts and overthrows. 

For thine own essence, Life, insurgent flows 
A subtle, singing ichor through each vein, 
Enhancing joy, and anodyne to pain. 
Though vistas of the years may interpose, 
Or this same hour my book of days may close, 
What matter? I have lived, shall live again. 



Ill 



WESTPORT CHANTY 

ROW from the wharf with its mouldering shipping, 
Past the old town with its roofs shingled grey, 
Out to the "Windflower," she's riding and dipping 
Her white bow to drink of the blue-breasted bay. 

Make fast the dory, and heave up the anchor. 
Call to the helmsman to steer us due south, 
Away from the town with its care and its rancor, 
Out to the beryl-green harbor mouth. 

Beckoning gulls and the salt air that's cleaving 

The soul like a breath from eternity 

Call us to beauty beyond all believing, 

So away for the islands, and ho! for the sea. 



112 



SONG IN THE WEST 

WEST, turn you West, while the evening is falling, 
West, where a voice through the twilight is 
calling, 
Over the Ridge, down the soft slope that follows, 
Out to the fields with their grass-hidden hollows. 

West, where the day's crimson glory still lingers, 
West, where the sun reaches long gleaming fingers, 
Raying and aureate, reaching and cleaving, 
Straight through the clouds with their amethyst 
weaving. 

West, turn you West, till the mists raise their vapors, 
West till the first stars are lighting their tapers, 
Past where the marsh-grasses swing their green 

billows, 
Then you will come to an island of willows. 

Hid in an elm, he is warbling his query, 
Singing his night song, the small hidden veery — 
Voicing all Nature in sweet invocation, 
A magical outcry of pure adoration. 



113 



THE CITY 

OUT from the great seaward marshes the salt 
wind came crying, 
Questioning over the meadows, and up to the hills 

at the west, 
While ever the voice of the city gave answer, replying 
Proudly, "O wind, cease your sighing 
And tell us your quest." 
Then the wind answered, "O city, whose amplitude 

fills 
The sweeps of the flat-lands, and slopes of the lovely 

cool hills, 
What of your stewardship, city, give answer and tell 
Of the people who dwell 
Sheltered within your wide border? 
Say, is your house set in order?" 
Then the proud city made answer, "O wind, wild 

and strange, 
What do you see as you range 
Over our roofs, and our spires 
Reaching like splendid desires 
Up to the sun?" 
The wind answered sternly, "O ye who have builded 

so fair, 
Have a care, 
That ye give to your citizens sunlight and freedom 

and air. 

114 



Look at your city, and answer, here by her grey 

river flowing, 
Through all the years of her growing, 
What has she done? 

Is there no factory where, shut away from the sun 
Bewildered young children work, pining for air and 

for fun? 
Is there no groan of the man overburdened, nor 

murmur of him 
Who works in the dim, 
Ill-lighted, airless bleak room, 
Despairing and gloom-haunted, soul all abrim 
With revolt, and his spirit a-frown? 
What of the men on the ships, 
Crowding the weed-darkened slips, 
The great cargoes loading, unloading, 
With fear as a taskmaster goading? 
When the pale star of the evening looks down 
Over the roofs of the town, 
What meets her luminous glances, 
As traitorous darkness advances? 
Has she not seen 
Vice, painted of mien 
Lurking, black smirking, 
Where youth with sweet innocence dances?" 
Then the city: "O wind, you have spoken, 
And the blame of our shame you have told; 

115 



And the pride of our years has been broken 

At the tale of these wrongs that are old. 

Join wind, with the sun, earth and sky, 

To work us an alchemy. 

Sweep through our bodies and souls until clean 

As the rain, and with hope springing green 

As the grass on our country side, 

We may boast of our upright laws, and our men of 

splendid pride; 
Till we cleave to one another, 
And own every man our brother; 
Till we find our bread bitter when knowing 
Our fellow is hungry going." 
Then the wind: "I will sweep like a spirit 
Of cleansing fire over your city. 
My scourging might, will ye not fear it? 
I will show ye no pity! 
Not in her numbers of men, nor the size of her 

treasure 
Is the great city's measure. 
It is freedom of spirit, the loyal endeavor 
That starts 

In each of her citizen's hearts, 
Ready to pledge her a service devoted forever; 
When judgments of fairness unerring 
Bring return of true service in men undemurring, 
Unrestrained by the old bleak compulsion 

116 



Of force which made grief and revulsion; 

When true tasks shall never be wanting; 

When men go to labor with chanting; 

When in hours when their life-toil is over 

The aged may sit in the sun, 

While the children scamper and run 

Unmolested through grass white with clover; 

Children, free-limbed, with merry young faces, 

At play in the open green spaces; 

Joyous young sisters and brothers, 

And babies all rosily nourished, and happy young 

mothers — 
A people united in service, forgetful of ancient races 
Where cruel injustice and greed stalked in the 

market-places." 
"Wind of the sea," cried the city, "Stir all my people 

with fire 
For service to God, and to home and to all of this 

land! 
The ideals of our fathers must stand; 
But united to them, shall arise from the pyre 
Of old orders abandoned and shames cast away, 
A flare as of day, 
New lit by man's hand at the breath of our God's 

own desire. 
Cease not to stir in our hearts till we cast away dross 
Of unworthy ambitions, and useless traditions, 

117 



Acknowledging gain in the loss; 

Till over this city there stands that temple not made 

with hands, 
Till flowering in beauty upstarts the blossom of 

white in our hearts 
That blooms in the light of the cross. 
Not the cross of the ancient belief, sacrificial sad 

emblem of grief, 
Not the cross of today, when we grope through 

mists of gray doubt unto hope, 
But the symbol triumphant upborne, of fulfillment in 

that future morn, 
When the spirit of love all trancendent, eternal 
Shall cast out all hatred and scorn. 



118 



I DREAMT I SAW MY LAUGHING LOVE 

I DREAMT I say my laughing Love, 
She stood knee deep in flowers; 
She stretched her careless hands above, 
And plucked them through the hours. 
Into a swiftly running brook 
She tossed them, bruised and torn. 
Had those proud eyes but deigned to look, 
A friend's name each had worn. 

I dreamt I saw my Love again, 

She trod a barren lea; 

Sorrow had marked her brow, and pain; 

Her tears fell ceaselessly. 

One single flower she gathered close, 

And bitterly she cried. 

'Twas a forgotten, faded rose — 

It's sharp thorn pierced her side. 



119 



A MESSAGE 

THE snow lies on the elm-tree boughs, 
To roof and spire the hoar-frost clings, 
But Senor Robin, from the south, 
Beneath my window sings, and sings: — 

"Away with winter and its care! 
I sing the cowslips budding yellow; 
I sing glad hearts and April air. 
Pray am I not a welcome fellow?" 

Brave little friend, though days are cold, 
And hungry cats are darkly lurking, 
Your song goes ringing, joyous, bold — 
"We birds sing on, and do no shirking." 

My heart too long to winter's chills 
And to past grief-pangs has been clinging; 
I'll think of dancing daffodils, 
And join the robin in his singing. 



120 



SISTERS 

ONE sits and sews in a sheltered room, 
At the close of a peaceful day. 
The breezes waft scent from the lilac bloom, 
And a wood-thrush sings its lay; 
But her mad wild thoughts stretch wide their wings 
To fly over hill and vale, 

And, "Oh! could I follow my love," she sings, 
"On the far-off gypsy trail." 

The other is far in a rough wild camp, 

Where the evening tent-fire gleams. 

The wind is bleak and the mists rise damp, 

And a distant eagle screams. 

She has followed her love where the trail is long; 

She has shared his name and fate, 

But, "Oh! could I see" so runs her song, 

"The old home-garden gate!" 



121 



GUDRUN 

GUDRUN sits spinning in quiet bower; 
(Sing low my wheel) 
A knight rides by her father's tower. 

(Loud and strong is the song of the sword.) 

Gudrun looks out from her casement high; 

(Sing low my wheel) 
She sees the knight go riding by. 

(Loud and strong is the song of the sword.) 

Her hearts goes with him to the fray, 

(Sing low my wheel) 
But oh! he never comes back that way. 

(Loud and strong is the song of the sword.) 

When the moon lights the battle-plain, 

(Sing low my wheel) 
The proud knight lies among the slain. 

(Loud and strong is the song of the sword.) 



122 



HER SONNET 
(Double Triolet) 

SHE labored with ink and with brain 
At a thing which she meant for a sonnet. 
The editor's dictum gave pain, 

For she'd labored with ink and with brain, 
"My critical sense it would strain 

If I dared to pass favorably on it." 
She had labored with ink and with brain 

At a thing she had meant for a sonnet. 

With lace and pink roses outspread 

Her fingers had fashioned a bonnet. 
She placed it upon her dark head, 

With lace and pink roses outspread. 
What d'ye think that the editor said, 

When he chanced to behold her thus don it? 
"With lace and pink roses outspread 

Your fingers have fashioned a — SONNET!" 



123 



SONNET 
(On the difficulties of writing a sonnet at home) 

COME thoughts, for you must muster on parade, 
A sonnet on the rain, my fancy orders. 
(We'll have to sell the house or take in boarders 
If things keep soaring skyward, I'm afraid.) 
The rain — I'll make it spatter in a glade 
Where larches tall o'er spreading flowers are warders. 
(The old provision dealers are such hoarders; 
It's all their fault that prices high have stayed.) 
The rain, down-dropping in a scented wood. 
(That recipe for scrapple sounded good.) 
The rain, it rings with elfin laughter running. 
(This pattern for my new frock will be stunning.) 
The rain, where breezes sing and zephyrs laugh. 
(Our oil stock cut its dividends in half!) 



124 



THE POET 

HE sat where mighty trees outspread, 
Through dew and sun, the whole day long, 
Threading upon a silver thread 

The little purple beads of song. 

Rude men in passing mocked his task, 
And laughed at all his simple pains; 
They would not linger lest he ask 

For largesse from their ample gains. 

The task grew dull, his hands a-cold. 

Now, mourning for their poet dead, 
The clamoring pilgrims buy for gold 

Those beads strung on a silver thread. 



125 



COUNTING SHEEP 
A Bedtime Drama 

CHARACTERS: 

A Mother (who has refused to rock her little boy to 
sleep) 

A Little Boy 

BOY: O Mother, my dear, my eyes are wide, 
I never can go sleep. 
Mother : Try counting waves coming in with the tide, 

Or a flock of your Grand-dad's sheep. 
Boy: I'll count the sheep climbing over a wall, 

But I wish you'd rock me instead. 
Mother: No, no. That never would do at all; 
Try to sleep, little curly head. 

(The mother leaves him, but listens through a crack 
in the door, and this is what she hears.) 

Boy: I'll play I'm out in the pasture wide 

Where the wall's mos' hid in clover. 
The sheep are all on the other side, 

An' I'll call, so they'll climb over. 
I'm sure I remember every one 

That I saw in the field last summer. 
This game is going to be heaps of fun. 

Oh, here is the firstest comer! 

126 



It's that black-faced sheep with the crooked smile, 

Who sounds so sad when she's bleating. 
I was picking daisies down by the stile 

When she "ba-baed" me a greeting. 
The crooked-horned ram comes scrambling next — 

He's over the wall in a hurry. 
He's very grumpy. Perhaps he's vexed, 

And thinks that life is a worry. 

Oh! here's the fat old grandmother ewe, 

She marches fine as a fiddle, 
She makes for the gap. She'll never get through — 

I knew she'd stick in the middle. (Laughs) 
Two thin little sheep come over a-flying. 

They're a very nimble pair. 
They can clear the wall without half trying, 

And land mos' anywhere. 

Here's some of their sisters, and some of their 
brothers; 

And maybe the rest are cousins. 
I'm tired of counting. There's so many others — 

A hundred, I think, or dozens. 
Oh! dear. They are leaving one weeny lamb. 

It hasn't the strength to clear it. 
It's crying "Come help me. How weak I am!" 

Is nobody going to hear it? 

127 



The poor little fellow! He bleats and bleats. 

I can't bear to watch him trying 
To climb. I'll hide underneath the sheets, 

An' then I won't hear him crying. (Begins 
calling) 
"Oh, Mother! Come! Don't you hear me call? 

Please lift the little one over. 
He's feeble and weak, I know he'll fall. 

Do put him safe in the clover." 

Mother: (running in) "There, there, my darling. 

Don't cry, my pet. 
They are not real sheep, my blessing. 

You were only playing. (His cheeks are wet. 
This is really too distressing.) 

Come nestle all comfy in Mother's lap, 
We'll play it's Cuddle-and-kiss time; 

Your're Mummy's darling, her own little chap, 
And she'll rock you to sleep, JUST THIS TIME." 



128 



JtHl? 89 






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